Magnus the Lesser. An intro. Of Hecate's Pale Offering

Magnus the Lesser, or what the acolytes referred to as the beneficiary, stepped into the Tower of Man. A doorman, probably in his twenties, put on a plastic smile and greeted him. 'Hello sir'. The lobby smelled of cleaning products and carpet cleaner. The sound of chatter was quickly hushed as he appeared and resumed as he passed.
"Good morning, Eric." He grunted as he passed the reception desk. When he didn't receive a reply, he looked up from his phone to find both his employee and security engaged in a quiet conversation off near the corner of the room. A man from the outside was there. Faint, insistent arguing was well concealed but still apparent. Magnus walked to the reception desk and put down his briefcase, catching a second of the conversation that was being held a few yards away. It was a trespassing issue, but one not likely to be resolved amicably.
"You must be invited to enter the Tower, sir." A security guard said firmly. "We no longer allow visitors to the Tower without expressed permission."
The man said something Magnus couldn't make out and flashed what appeared to be an old invitation, one which would have allowed him entry back when Pious had been the Church of Man. Those times were over. Pious had been soft. He thought. 
His birth brother, Pious McNally had built the Church of Man into a worldwide conglomerate with far reaching influence. Making billions in the real estate business, Pious had shoveled his fortune into the creation of this temple then just before its completion, found himself murdered inside its walls.
Poor fool.
His brother had been the face of the Church. He had been open to the public, an inviting and some say extroverted charismatic who loved his radio sermons and social activities. Magnus was none of those things. As stolid as his brother had been open, Magnus was cut from a different tailor. Even his suits reflected this. Whereas Pious had loved his personal belongings and well thought out wardrobe, Magnus preferred all black all the time. Pious had been showy some heard him remark at his sibling's wake the year prior.
Still, the Church had survived. Flourished in fact since Magnus had taken control. Of course the acolytes knew nothing of the fact he had been a silent partner from the Church's inception. The shock and worry were evident in their faces when he had materialized like a specter a few days after his brother's demise to assume power. But perhaps they did see a ghost. Magnus and Pious had similar features. A high sloping forehead and prominent jowels. Deep, recessed eyes and salt and pepper checkered hair, the two had always looked alike.
As he drew closer, he put on a wooden smile.
"What is the problem?"
Security nodded to him and cleared his throat. "Sir, this gentleman has an old invite pass that was issued when-"
Magnus cut him off. "It's invalid." He said. "We don't allow public entrance into the Tower anymore."
The man scofffed. "But when I got it, it was perfectly valid. Why can't you honor it now?"
Magnus sighed. He had been dealing with these Pious problems for months now- business licenses and real estate contracts, developers still looking to cash in on the Church's sizable fortune.
He thought of having the man simply thrown out of the building. But as much as he despised working in the public domain, a public incident would be worse.
"Sir, this invitation was issued when Pious McNally was the head of operations. Since Pious is now dead, what would you use the invitation for?"
"To see my painting!" The man all but screamed.
Magnus reached out and plucked the invitation from the small, wiry fingers and read it aloud/
"Giovanni Cortan." 
Oh my! He knew this name. Giovanni Cortan was the artist Pious had commissioned to create a giant ceiling mosaic on the West side of the Tower. Cortan was a famous name in art circles. His pieces commanded top dollar. Magnus himself had been impressed with the mural. A dark, cosmic scene, the gods of yesteryear were depicted as torn to pieces by demons while a vibrant human male ascended to the sky. It was controversial no doubt but a lovely mosaic. Magnus had marveled up at it when he first entered the Tower.
"Mr. Cortan. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you."
"Yes, hello." Cortan replied. "May I pass?"
"Of course. Of course."
Cortan threw a look of disdain at security and shuffled past the reception area and onto the escalator that would take him to the painting's showroom.
Magnus glanced at security who slowly followed him up to the second floor. Magnus waited a full minute before heading up the escalator himself. Goosebumps had appeared on his arms and something in the back of his mind told him that Cortan couldn't be trusted.
As he got to the top of the escalator, he stood struck dumb staring as smoke spilled out from the showroom front entrance. The painting! The damned artist had come to burn it! 
Magnus ran swiftly into the room, ducking his head as he entered. Cortan and security were wrestling over a lit zippo that had been used to light the fabric streamers that hanged from the ceiling on either side of the mosaic. Magnus turned, looked up as the lit fabric burned up the seam. An orange line crawled steadily closer to the painting that was perhaps four feet above.
Magnus motioned with his left hand. Security let go of Cortan and ran for a fire extinguisher encased in glass on the side wall next to the exit.
"It's too late!" Magnus screamed.
He knew that it wasn't just the painting that was endanger of being engulfed. The entire Tower was at risk if the blaze got out of control.
"Call the fire department!"
Magnus leaped forward, catching Cortan across his face with his left fist. The little artist tumbled then was thrown onto his back.
"What have you done?" Magnus screamed.
"It's a desecration!" Cortan shrieked shrilly. "It's blasphemous and I won't have it!"
"It's not yours to have," Magnus replied and kicked hard into the man's stomach.
From outside he heard sirens and hoped there was little traffic in front of the Tower. He looked up to see the top corner of the Ascendance of Man peeling away like dead skin. He could smell the paint as it shriveled under the heat. Somewhere, Cortan was laughing manically. "The gods have come to us! You're all wrong. They are here!"
"They're husks." Magnus sneered.
Suddenly, the Tower's fire sprinkler system activated and water sprayed down from sprinklers installed around the painting. Cortan fell onto his behind as he realized the masterwork would be saved. He brushed his hand across his forehead, stared up with blood shot eyes as the painting smoked, singed from the fire. Perhaps a four to five feet area had been burned clear away. The area close to the burn was bubbling and raised from the ceiling. Blue and yellow drizzled down the painting in little streams.
"The Church of Man is a farce!" Cortan said. His eyes red from the tears that streamed down, he raised a tiny fist to Magnus. "You're a devil McNally. Just like your brother was."
To Magnus's surprise, the man began to cry. A low, choking sob, Cortan put his hands over his face and his body spasmed in his grief.
"You're a fool, Giovanni." Magnus said quietly. "You see? Look what the gods have done to you? Look at the anguish you're knowing right now, at this second. They don't deserve you Giovanni."
Cortan wiped his face, glanced back up at the ceiling. His mouth quivered. "Well, they don't deserve that." He rasped. From his vantage point, Magnus had to look straight above his head to see the violence that the mosiac depicted. He covered his face to the sprinkler spray and squinted.
"The gods aren't dead McNally." Cortan said.
"No, but they hate us Giovanni. They hate the humanity they've descended into. How could they not?"
"Bah! You don't know McNally. You don't know that."
"But I do. I do know that. It's the reason they stay in hiding."
"They stay in hiding from people like you!"
Magnus turned away as police and fire department spilled into the room. As they hauled Cortan onto his feet, Magnus looked the old artist in the eye. Putting his head down, he mumbled. "No charges will be filed. The old man has been deceived."
"I think it's you who deceive McNally. You're a deceiver."
Magnus heard a rustle from above and thought the painting had become unhinged and was ready to topple from above. Then he remembered that the entire ceiling would have to come down for that to happen. Still, he didn't feel relieved and couldn't say why he felt no real comfort in the painting being saved.

Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Set meets Hecate. #NeonGodsII

Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Set meets Hecate. #NeonGodsII: "What is it you want?" Hecate asked. She raised the pitch of her voice just slightly. Set kept his eyes lowered to the water. H...

Set meets Hecate. #NeonGodsII

"What is it you want?" Hecate asked.
She raised the pitch of her voice just slightly.
Set kept his eyes lowered to the water. He continued to stare at the fish that swam just underneath the surface. He stretched his fingers, felt sweat run down his back. The goddess was still, unnaturally so. As if she herself were in rigor mortis. Set glanced to his right. Her red hair the color of figs draped down her back. Her lids were half closed, hiding her coal eyes. She waited.
"Draw down the moon for me." He said.
Hecate breathed deeply, her face on the pond below.
"Do you know what they are?" She asked.
Set's face twitched. "The fish?"
Hecate stepped forward, put a hand to her mouth as if she were sharing a secret. "They're red mullet."
Set caught what seemed like pretense in her words. Was she telling the truth?
"You see those ones right there?" She continued. "You see what they're doing?"
Set followed her gaze. There was a group of fish thrashing about, swimming atop one another chaotically.
"The red mullet are eating one of their own. They eat their dead."
She broke off as a passerby stepped past.
"They're known to eat a human corpse as well. It's just what they do."
Set felt more and more at a loss as to what the goddess was getting at. Does she mock me? He squinted at the pond. Was it about the corpse? The pigment perhaps. The red, his beloved Kemet. Does she insult his home? Her thin-lipped smile still expressionless, she turned to him. "They come from the family Mullidae."
"Dead eating fish." He said.
"Yes." She replied. "Did your people eat their dead Egyptian?"
Set's mind traveled back. He heard the pyramid text as if it were spoken aloud once again.
the king orders sacrifices, he alone controls them,
the king eats humans, feeds on gods;
he has them presented on an altar to himself,
the king eats their magic, he gulps down their souls, 
the adults he has for breakfast,
the young are lunch,
the babies he has for supper, the old ones are too tough to eat, he just burns them on the altar as an offering to himself. 
She was mocking him. She was an accuser. Set cleared his throat. "Our Heka required no actual ingestion. Our ways disposed of the dead...differently. But that's why I'm here, is it not? The magic of my people was ineffective for reascending. Perhaps you will fare better Greek."
Hecate ignored him. She stepped back from the pond and brushed her hair back behind her left shoulder.
"I will call you Mullus." She said.
Mullus. The insult hanged in the air between them. Hecate sneered and faced the Egyptian god fully. "Yes, it will be Mullus I think. Like the red mullet."
Set managed a weak smile. "As it were." He stepped beside her and paused, studying the goddess of witchcraft. Somewhere he thought he heard a dog howling.
"Will you imbue me with your lunar spirit? Draw down your moon Greek. Perhaps I can reascend us all to our grace. It is worth a try?"
"Why you?"
"Nobody else will try."
He knew he was right. If the goddess herself had attempted it, she would have denied him outright.
"Well?"
Hecate looked at his face. Her gaze unfocused, as if in thought. But there was something else. She appeared almost eager. He saw now the Descendant behind those dark eyes. He shuddered deeply. 
"What do you offer?" She asked.
"I can give you information."
"Did you know of the killings last year?"
Set glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. He knew the goddess was testing him. curious to see if he would tell her a lie.
"You mean the Christian at the Basement?" He said furtively.
"Yes."
"I know of it."
Revelation seized Set's mind. There was no way for her to know the whole truth of that matter. She had no idea of Sadie Fuller at all. Truth would be wise unless she got into specifics.
"Was it Descended? They never caught whoever it was."
"Yes, it was."
Hecate gasped, covered her mouth. "Which?"
"I don't know."
Hecate gasped again, made a kissing sound with her lips. "This Descendant...lives still?"
Set thought about this as he stared back at the pond. The Androktasiai had been slaughtered outright by the girl. He would have likely joined them had Dionysus not intervened. If ever given the chance, Set would be sure to enact recompense. But the girl was Descended. She had to be. There was no other explanation.
"The Descendant has been missing for some time." He said.
"Do you know the Christian messiah has come back?"
"What? The Christ rose again?"
Hecate spoke quickly. "Not long after. He still performs, although now he has body guards or something."
A look of elation on her face, Hecate took out her phone and nodded to Set. He was a moment comprehending what she meant.
"A number to reach you." She prompted.
"Ah yes, of course."
As Set gave her the number of his disposable phone, he couldn't help but feel unnerved. Thinking back on Sadie Fuller had shaken him. Whatever she was, she was still out there somewhere in the city. Oh, how he'd love to carve into the girl with knives.
Set recovered quickly. He put on a smile and looked back at Hecate who was staring.
"Until next time then." He mustered.
Hecate grinned eerily. "Be ready Mullus. The lunar spirit is...formidable."
Set's eyes traveled up and down the goddess as she walked away. His thoughts elsewhere, he bowed his head, content to see how this played out.

Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Ariadne's Folly

Hey, here's an intro. of Ariadne in the Neon Gods sequel. I had to edit her out of Neon but we got her in Book II and she's really talking. 



Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Ariadne's Folly: Ariadne fell silent, staring at the grocer. A turnip of a man, his unusually large jowls and high forehead gave him the appearance of ...

Ariadne's Folly

Ariadne fell silent, staring at the grocer. A turnip of a man, his unusually large jowls and high forehead gave him the appearance of a cartoon.
"Miss, as I said before, the prices really aren't negotiable."
The food market had opened a couple of hours prior. An outdoor Saturday morning event, Ariadne had been coming since she descended a year before. It caused her to think of home, which really was a burden given there was no feasible way she could get back. And she had tried. Visiting every charlatan, witchdoctor, and paranormal psychologist in the city. They had all referred her to a shrink, even the medicine man, which was depressing unto itself.
She wandered the shabby, little makeshift kiosks trying a lime here or a pear there, ignoring the downtrodden glances of the fruit owners. What good was being a salesman if sampling the product was unacceptable?
Ariadne huffed and kicked her feet. Her marble blue eyes scouring the kiosk stand for a mango that was ripe enough to eat. "Well, I'll tell ya." She began slowly, not entirely confident the man was apt to have this conversation. "Eating a mango that isn't ripe could crack my teeth. Are you prepared for that outcome? Have you taken the necessary precautions just in case? Wouldn't want you to have to live off your...product?"
It really was a question. This vendor looked to have picked these fruits and vegetable out of a restaurant trash bin.
"What did you say?" The man spat arrogantly. "You will not find more delectable fruits anywhere in the city. Look at this mango."
Ariadne glanced sheepishly at him.
"It is of the utmost quality." He said.
"Well, I might be a heathen but I'm not seeing it." She retorted.
"How dare you!" He cried miserably. "You've stood here nearly thirty minutes, not happy with anything! Go bother somebody else."
"You see," She began again. Her voice took on a motherly quality. "You have to wait until the fruit is ripe."
She plucked the mango out of his hand. The man tensed as Ariadne put it to her nose, smelled it briefly. He cocked his head as she slowly squeezed it, rolling it around in her hand."
"And?" The vendor demanded.
"I don't even know if it's worth it." Ariadne spoke slowly, cautiously. "There's only one way to know for sure."
"Don't you dare!"
She took a large bite, feeling the perfectly ripe fruit burst into her mouth, sugary juices on her tongue, running down her chin. She slurped the pulpy texture, let it linger until she could smell it.
She brushed her dark hair away from her face and tucked it behind her right ear. "This one will do, but just barely."
 The man looked stricken, as if she'd given him terrible news about his health. "You did not! You're gonna pay for that!"
"Well, of course I'm going to pay for it." She took another bite. "I'm prepared to purchase all the mangoes. Given they're suitable."
"Suitable?"
"Yes."
"You just ate one! You know they're suitable."
"We're gonna have to discuss that."
The man stiffened. He trembled a little. Ariadne wasn't sure he'd make it through this. She looked at him, seeing the beet face and sweat. The little shakes he had when he mopped his forehead.
Ariadne took a deep breath. "Now then."
He took a step back.
"The pressure is on mister. How much for the pears?"

Forty seven minutes later, Ariadne found herself at a large fountain a half block up from the food market. It was a robust gray, bespeckled with little dots of white and brown. Clearly areas where the city pigeons had an urge. In the middle of the fountain, a statue of her husband had been erected. Oh, not him exactly. It was a statue of Pan, all cloven-hoofed and horned with shit on his face and pipes. It wasn't Dionysus. Some say her husband was the faun's father but she wasn't one to gossip. And Dionysus was mum on the matter. So that was peculiar.
But there she stood, glaring up at Pan's contorted, muscly, shit covered face when she heard a loud "Hmph!" behind her.
That unhinged vendor. She thought pitifully. "Hey, we agreed on ten for the bushel. I can't help if growing fruit isn't easy on a city sidewalk!"
"Look what we have here."
Ariadne turned and grimaced at the face in front of her. He was a bear of a man. Unshaven, unkempt, frightfully fat. He wore a t shirt that looked about to split. But he had a warm smile. Even if he did waddle around. He held a leash in his large hand that was attached to a waist high donkey that, at this very second, was digging into her bag and munching on carrots she had worked twenty minutes to procure.
"Oh, hi Silenus." She said. "Hey Rat!" She bent and patted the animal stiffly on the head.
"His name isn't Rat."
"So what is it?"
"Donkey."
"God, your dense. Well, I'll tell ya. One animal name is as good as the next. Don't be prejudiced."
"Huh?"
"Where's my husband Silenus?"
"Dionysus has been searching everywhere for you." Silenus said. He straightened, arching his back in some show of dignity. Ariadne squinted at him. "He has scoured the city."
She nodded. "From a barstool?"
Silenus's eyes widened. He shivered at her apparent prescience.
"Oh god, where else would he be? I could have found him in days had I not wanted to explore awhile."
"He has been terribly worried. Especially after the happenings last year."
She rubbed at her lips. The killings had been all over the news. One after another until finally they just stopped. Ariadne bent and picked a mango out of her bag. She placed a hand on Rat as she took a bite.
"How did you descend?" Silenus asked,
She forced a smile. "Come again?"
"Descend, child. You're not a goddess."
"Oh, let's not get into that again."
"Ariadne!"
"I don't know! I'm a princess. I make things happen. What about you, Silenus? You're not exactly a god." She sized him up frowning. "How did you make your way here?"
The old tutor hadn't considered the question before, Ariadne surmised. She scowled, slowly shaking her head. "You don't know either. We're as stuck as they are."
Ariadne wiped her mouth, tossed the mango core into the fountain. "Take me to my husband, Rat."
She ordered.
"Silenus, they really captured your likeness with it. The white spots are especially fitting."
"What are you getting on about?"
"Oh sorry, nothing." She smiled sweetly. Taking the leash out of his hand and leading Rat away. Silenus frowned, staring at the ground. As he followed, he glanced up at the fountain statue and his brow furled. He couldn't say why but he felt that he should be offended. 

Barnes & Noble debacle

First, I don't have any idea what that sign is talking about or what I should be looking for. Is it interesting? Terrifying? Should I look for that sign out on the freeway? Will it point me to food? I saw it on the side of a building as I walked past. The florescent popped and there was a slight hum. I stared at it for a short time, maybe forty five minutes then wandered off wondering how the sign knew. The sign knows. Maybe I should hashtag that.

Second, I absolutely don't know how Barnes & Noble publishes any print copies of any author at any time. I was keen on the ebook submission for B&N. I navigated the page effortlessly, it was almost insulting how quick I uploaded my manuscript and cover. I was laughing gleefully but I think that Barnes or maybe Noble knew. Because when I went to create a print copy of my book, the website tightened up faster than a broken back. I uploaded the manuscript fine, thank you, but the cover refused. Refused. Even after I resized the image, downloaded the shoddy B&N template, changed the pixels, prayed to Cthulhu, and danced a jig. It was hopeless. I knew it was personal for getting uppity about the ebook. That's alright, we'll shove off but I'll be back with Adobe or Photoshop and get even.

Third, Neon Gods is now available on Amazon in print form and Kindle, B&N ebook, Kobo ebook, and we're taking auditions for the audio version that you can listen to in the luxury of your car. Eventually, I will have a hard cover w/ dust jacket of the novel. If it's the last thing I do. I'll keep you posted. Keep smiling, don't kill anything.

Cheers.     

Why write fiction?

I've been asked recently what made me want to worldmake? Why, after doing extensive work in academia and non-fiction, did I stare haplessly onto a blank page and attempt an original story? I could say something like, "Karl Popper would approve." And maybe he would. World 3 certainly includes modern myth making. And I've always loved abstract thought. Why not try my hand at creating a World and reality?

Or maybe I say, "Fiction is easier." I don't have to research or defend a thesis. I don't need any primary sources or ethnographic fieldwork. I can just sit naked in my apartment and put pen to paper. What could be easier? Well that's just uninformed. I found myself doing as much research or more when I sat down with Hank Dolan and tried to make sense of New Los Angeles.

No, the truth is: I made a work of fiction because I was compelled to do so. It was a compulsion. I've always been fascinated with myth and folklore. Fiction gave me the opportunity to be a mythologist and arm chair psychologist. This is Sadie Fuller. What would Sadie Fuller do in this circumstance? What would she say? How would she say it? Writing fiction gave me a chance to explore colorful philosophical positions and see how they might play out in certain settings. It was a way to test my own beliefs and thought processes by imagining interactions with people who hold differing viewpoints.

Am I saying that constructing a dialogue between the Greek Dionysus and Egyptian Set is the same, or even in the same ballpark, as Albert Camus and Jean Paul Sartre, sitting at a hazy French cafe, chain smoking and pouring liquor down their throats, while bickering like dogs about what it means to be free. Yes. To me, it was exactly like that. I found it fascinating to ask myself, given the differences in culture and context, what kind of conversation would these deities have. I imagined them despising each other.

Fiction was a vehicle to play out scenarios in my mind that found interesting. Writing the story was a form of thought experiment. Maybe that was the main reason why I wrote a book of fiction. I can't really say, with any concrete certainty. I will say that once it got going, once the words began to fill the paper and page one became ten and then thirty and then a hundred, that inertia took over. By the time Act II rolled around, I was stuck on the train and it was gonna be finished come hell or high water.

The most honest answer about 'why fiction' though, at least for me, is that it became immensely enjoyable. I loved the process. It was delightful, and fun, and grueling, and awful. It was an addiction that Sadie Fuller would certainly relate to. Fiction is all these things and more. Perhaps we see ourselves in our characters. Or we see what we'd like to be. Fiction affords a purity of worldview- we're able to salvage the debris that floats around in our minds and construct a reality where it is useful. It's a zenful experience. Both a meditative experience and creative outlet.

I often ask myself what would my writing look like now had I taken on creative writing as an area of study in college. Would my fiction writing be better? More stylized? I want to say that the content would be completely different.  There's a reason why myth and folklore permeate my book. Perhaps the content is my core interest and I'd have ended up writing about deitic interaction even without the background of academic writing. That's the conundrum of fiction. It's a mystery unto itself. It's a beautiful mystery, full of soaring highs and god awful troughs, but the process is unlike anything else.

Neon Gods Published!

Neon is finally here everybody! You can get the paperback or kindle versions. Here is the link!
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07H1PD2QF?pf_rd_p=d1f45e03-8b73-4c9a-9beb-4819111bef9a&pf_rd_r=TZ31S89G19YP19J7JTFY

Don't forget to follow my blog for articles, chapter excerpts, and personal reflections on...everything.

Neon Gods Chapter 1!!!!

Outside, the rain was relentless and bashed against the window. Booms reverberated through the walls of the dingy dust addled speakeasy motel. A single twelve inch television displayed snow as streams of bright yellow light spilled in from half closed blinds at the window.
On the bed, a man lay sleeping. Covered from head to toe in a bed sheet, sweat from his chest and forehead seeped into the cotton. As he gasped, the sheet rose gently off his face. Somewhere in the motel, a couple was arguing. Screams could be heard over angry thunder.
The man jolted awake and sat up.
“Father?” he grabbed the sheet, pulling it off.
Squinting and shaking his head, he heard the storm outside. It was so loud. Unbearable. Covering his ears he fell out of bed. He stared in bewilderment at the chaos on television. A large bang outside the door made him flinch. Father it hurts.
Covering his head, he tried to block out the sounds but they consumed him. He retreated to the corner of the room while sweat streamed down his face. A slow, guttural wail echoed through walls.
Shaking, he crawled on hands and knees to the door. He turned the knob and on wobbling knees stepped outside.
A woman was standing outside the next room. She glanced over and smirked.
“Go put on some clothes bum.”
The man blinked sweat out of his eyes. Lip trembling, he looked out in horror at the city street in front of him. As car horns blared and sirens sing past, the man stared at the scars on his wrists. Oh God no. He touched his face as if feeling it for the first time. Shivering, he wrapped his arms close to his body and noticed his teeth chattering. Father help me.
The man noticed a light emanating from above the street. Like a beacon, it blinked above as vehicles shot past underneath. The light. In the light with Father.  The man stepped out the motel door and into the road. He stumbled in the direction of the lamp. Barefoot on the slick street, he slipped and almost tumbled as a car narrowly missed him.
Then he was blinded. Unable to see through tears and the headlights of traffic, he dropped to his knees and began to pray. Hands in front of him, eyes closed to the world, he cried out. “Father!”
Suddenly, arms were pulling him out of the street. A beer bottle was thrown from a passing car and shattered in front of him.
“Come on!” A woman hissed. “You’re gonna get yourself killed!” Uncomprehending, the man shook his head. The pain like fire all over his body, he glanced down at his feet and hands. Oh God, where am I? The woman shrugged. “I don’t understand your language. You speak English?”
The man stared blankly at her. He slumped down to the ground. Dirt smudged, slimy and glistening, he knelt in a shallow pool.  Sheol. I’m in Sheol. The woman put a hand on his shoulder and he recoiled violently.
“Get away from me Shade! You are forbidden!”
He lurched back and stumbles.
“Hey asshole! I just saved your skinny ass from being road kill.”
The man stumbled backward. His eyes wild with fear.
“I don’t know what language that is but it sounds Jewish. Are you a tourist?”
The man squinted as if seeing her for the first time. “Jehovah.” He blurted and looked around him as if expecting something to come out of the solid black darkness and consume him. “Jehovah.” He repeated.
The woman nodded, looked at him strangely. “I’m Sarah. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Neon Gods
For the alchemist, the one primarily in need of redemption is not man, but the deity who is lost and sleeping in matter. - Carl Jung


                       
Chapter 1


The edge of the cliff face jutted out like broken teeth. A long, steep climb, Detective Hank Dolan panted heavily and waved away mosquitoes. Hearing cars on the turnpike, he cursed the morning sun silently wishing he was still in bed. He had received a tip that a body lay nearby matching the description of a missing woman three months prior. He despised these assignments. They rarely turned out well. Hank closed his eyes and tried to feel the breeze that served as small comfort to the summer heat that would soon be beating down onto them. “It’s supposed to be in this general area.” Gregg said.
A relic from Hank’s better days, Gregg Summers could always be counted on to be there when needed. Round and cheeky, Gregg was the perfect opposite to Hank’s gangly and finch like stature.
Hank stepped into some thorny underbrush and grabbed a tree for support. Contrary to popular belief, not all of New Los Angeles is sprawling buildings, rail lines, and taxi-cabs. There are lush areas of green, small patches of unkempt vegetation. From above, the city proper reminds one of an upside down chandelier. Countless lamps and mirrored windows bounce light in all directions. But on the Hilltop, a hiking trail and shoddy camp ground where Hank now stood, short grassy outcrops were surrounded by clusters of dense, small trees. Twigs crackled underneath Hank’s boots as he worked his way off the trail.   
It’s not all ugly just most of it. Hank thought dryly.
He was positioning himself on a plateau overlooking the city below when Gregg called out.
“Dammit! Over here!”
Hank rolled down his sleeves and put on some latex gloves as he maneuvered to where Gregg was staring at his feet and glowering.
Just then the smell hit him. Putrid and wan, Hank felt bile rise in his throat. He shuffled over and together they gazed down at the body. There were lacerations on her back from being cut repeatedly. Her knotted brown hair covered in dirt and wet leaves reminded Hank of Ophelia.
“Do you think it’s her?” Gregg asked.
Hank grimaced and held his breath. “Possibly.”
He knelt down and rolled her to her side. Her ghostly, barren eyes had been olive. High cheekbones and pouty lips completed a wiry pretty picture. He gingerly lifted her left arm and sighed. There it was. The identifying tattoo that would make her his mark.
“It’s her.” He mumbled.
Gregg walked to the opposite side and leaned down. “Look at her neck.” He said. Dark purple bruising about an inch thick covered her throat. Splotches of blood and serrated skin indicated rope as the probable cause of death.
Gregg turned to stand then stopped, his eyes narrowing. “What’s in her hand?” Her broken, naked body had been turned in a way that Hank had initially missed the scourge.
“What the hell?” Gregg picked it up and scowled. “She did this to herself?” The rope had been braided into three prongs with wax balls at the ends. Each ball was covered in pieces of glass. Largely a Christian practice, Hank knew that flagellation was used as an extreme way for the devout to feel god’s love.
 Hank nodded. “The wounds on her back and legs, maybe.” Lifting her hand, Hank couldn’t help but notice her knuckles were bone white. “She’s still clutching it.” As he laid her hand back down, he noticed a piece of rope not attached to the scourge.
Hidden underneath her body and surrounded in brush, this rope was thicker and probably used to tow cars. “Wait a minute.”
He cradled the back of the woman’s head and lifted it just enough to run his hand in the brush under her. Together, they pulled four feet of frayed rope from under her body.
“Could be a cult. The city is nuts right now with all this talk of gods and goddesses.” Gregg remarked.
Hank had to admit that he brought up a good point. The flagellation alone spoke of Christian obsession. Perhaps she was a religious extremist who fell in with the wrong cult. Hank looked up to see Gregg staring at him. “What is it?”
Gregg cleared his throat. “You don’t think...maybe she was one of them?” Hank looked down at her face. They say the gods and goddesses are all beautiful. As if the fall from grace didn’t mar their physical countenance. And she was beautiful. Stunningly so. “It’s possible.”
Gregg circled back and bent down to examine the tattoo on her ribcage. “So she’s part of a cult and she’s doing this-” He points to her scourge marks. “-and her people, what, sacrifice her or something?”
Hank shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s more likely a suicide. Plus, if there had been some ritual, the brush around here would be all flattened.”
He held up the noose then glanced at the broken tree branch resting next to it. “I think she came here to die.” Hank thought back to what his partner had said about the possibility the girl was Descended.
Gregg searching his face nodded. “They’re human now right? They do die.”
Hank’s eyes lingered on her face. He noticed the sharp contours and wondered if she too should be included in the case file of the serial that had been terrorizing New Los Angeles for the past year.
That would make twenty four now. Twenty four bodies.
“I don’t know that they’ll ever be human. But they’re here nevertheless.”

The billboard, a sprawling mosaic of reds and blues was plastered on the Basement wall just above where Sadie Fuller stood. Lilac and lemon.
That’s what Sadie thought about as she waited for the Basement doors to open. This personal mantra had been hers for as long as she could remember. Both an affirmation and source of strength, she’d repeat the phrase whenever she needed it. It was a part of her, like her phobias, like her dancing. It made her think of sun tea, of purple light and flaxen yellow. Lilac and lemon. She looked up at it. A glossy picture of the headliner. Three accent lights cascaded a dull glow on the face of Jesus Christ and his band mates. The Messiah’s dark sunglasses and grizzled face leered out in the typical rock and roll pose. Around the corner and still thirty minutes before doors open, ushers herded ticket holders in line.
Sadie called herself a fan, which she knew was not wholly true because she had never really heard Jesus Christ Superstar’s music. But the man was a Descendant, a god that fell to earth, along with all the other gods, less than two years ago. Jesus had become a bona fide rock star. Such facts were hard to believe, if belief was even a thing anymore. For Sadie it was hard to tell. Much of the human experiences of myth and religion had become strange or irrelevant after the Descendance. This was a depressing admission but faith had never been something she’d had a strong connection to. And now there was no need for it at all.
Still, she was here waiting in line for the concert. There was clearly some attraction she held with the former god. She assumed it was curious fascination and accepted it as much.
Sadie made sure her gloves were covering all areas of bare skin on her hands. She checked for any holes or tears in the cotton, stretching each finger until she was sure there was no risk of contamination. She seldom had any problems when she went out in public but then again she didn’t attend many rock concerts either. Sadie fingered the backstage pass that hanged around her neck. It would likely be a total madhouse after the show. Who knew how many of these passes had been sold? Patrick wasn’t saying. Her date for the evening, the aspiring businessman had made all the arrangements and refused any elaboration on how much it had cost. Sadie glanced at him then back at her shoes. He wasn’t unattractive. Deep set brown eyes and tall. A tattoo on his left shoulder blade. She supposed they looked good together. The kind of couple you’d see on a sitcom or daytime television show. They had met a short time ago at her job. She had taken his drink orders, an ordinary task she did a hundred times a night only this night she had been lonely and got taken in by his attention. She had agreed to tonight’s date before even knowing his name. Her intuition told her that nothing would come of it. She certainly wouldn’t be going home with him. (He seemed desperate to be coddled and that shit got old fast.) But she was here and rumors were the Messiah put on a helluva good show.
Anticipation grew in Sadie as they moved past a merchant kiosk strategically set up on the way to the Basement front entrance. She put her hands on a t-shirt and key chain, getting a feel of them through her gloves.
“Which one do you like best?” Patrick asked. His voice was a cheery tenor.
“Oh, you don’t have to. I was just looking.” Sadie said.
“I want to.” Patrick replied quickly. “What size do you wear?”
He picked out a black shirt, paid the attendant, then handed it over. Sadie held up a smiling visage of a large black woman pointing to a cross in the sky and saying in bold lettering: ‘Y’all motherfuckers need Jesus!’ Sadie giggled and fit the shirt on over her tank top. She was relieved to be covered a bit. She tied a knot at the bottom showing some midriff but made sure to turn away whenever Patrick’s hands got too close to her bare skin. She looked ahead in line and noticed that ushers had opened the doors. Finally. She thought. She had been doing great working though her phobias but that didn’t mean she was without moments of panic. Patrick had also gotten quiet and she wondered if he was getting bored as well.
As they got inside the vibe changed completely. The drab waiting was replaced with a sulfuric quality combined with the heat of vibrating bodies. The Basement wasn’t a large venue. Designed for an intimate show, the lobby was adorned with band posters and stickers. High bricked walls and three large green lamps overhead spilled a misty fog of neon light in the room. It reminded Sadie of an arcade. The crowd would be jam packed, she knew, hoping that she didn’t get in there and start to freak out. Sadie admitted that she was starting to wish she had stayed home. Am I already contaminated? She fingered her back stage pass. Getting these would be worth the waves of nausea that she could feel churning in her stomach. Directly ahead, she could see people entering the nightclub, inside the clangs of instruments being tuned drifted out into the lobby. Sadie moved that way and peered in, eyes squinting as she passed into the darkened room.

Sadie stepped away from the low gate separating her from the band and turned directly into a kiss from Patrick. His hand on her behind, he smiled down at her. Just feet from a cabinet of speakers, her ears rang. She fixed her attention back to the stage, marveling on the Descendant. He was sinewy, tan and wore only a ragged pair of shorts. His long hair covering his face as he played, he seemed in trance or perhaps praying. Sadie probed ahead and could feel stage lighting warm the base of her skull. The band had kicked into a slow, melodic tune. Rising scales built in intensity until reaching a tone of exaltation then were improvised in peculiar phrases. Sadie saw the adoring reverence in Patrick’s eyes. The crowd’s reaction was similar. It was like being at a religious revival. Hundreds of arms reached out to the stage, trying to pull the Savior towards them. Audience members stamped their feet and shook their heads. It was the Lord’s prayer. It was a sermon on stage. The front rows felt like being underwater. Sadie’s ears popped and she swallowed to relieve the pressure. She straightened and put her hands out to the stage. Christ lifted his head for a moment, bringing his eyes level to hers. A crooked smile came to his face. Sadie blushed. She thought of the many people that traveled with the band, attending every show they performed. She could understand the attraction. No other concert was quite like this. And she knew it wasn’t just the music. They wanted much more than music.    The power of Jesus Christ was unknowable even as it came into your soul like milk and honey. We want you to save us but we don’t want you do die for us. Not again. This is what the concert was designed for. A new peace flowed through her. She closed her eyes, her body vibrated with a deep bass that rumbled through the venue. She took a deep breath and it was as if the noise of the crowd had disappeared. She was alone with the music and it was glorious. 

The halls backstage are dusty. Sadie Fuller thought as she meandered through the corridors of the Basement. Under blinking fluorescents and throngs of drunken groupies and roadies, the otherwordly quality of the music had penetrated into the chipped plaster and peeled wallpaper of the venue interior. 
Her long raven hair matted down in places, Sadie could feel sweat beaded on her forehead and neck. Her evergreen eyes darted up and around not settling on one particular thing for too long. At her side, Patrick walked a little too close, his arm brushing up against her as they wove their way backstage.
The area was a large open space littered with a bar and fold out chairs. To Sadie, the words ‘red room’ came to mind because blood red accent lights hanged haphazardly to the walls. She smelled stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer and resisted the onset of a headache. She tucked her hands under her armpits and cringed as people were shoved into her. There are too many people in here. Fans swarmed the dressing room door, their patience growing thin. 
Approaching a lanky, clearly drunk Sid Vicious lookalike, Sadie turned away as he grabbed her bare arm just under the t-shirt sleeve and pulled her towards him.
“You wanna candy flip babe? I got some pure liquid if you party.”
“Get off me.”
She pulled out of his grasp and looked down to see dirt marks on her arm and  her knitted glove torn at the left thumb. She gagged and felt her forehead get hot.
“Is there a bathroom around here?”
“We can go there if you want.” The man replied. Sadie turned to go and bumped into somebody that had basically been on top of her. “Fuck!” She turned back and he was within kissing distance. Sadie recoiled, pushing his head away. Then she noticed that what she initially thought as dirt on the man’s forehead was actually a round tattoo. She pulled her hand away as he grabbed the sides of his face. The man doubled over and cursed, staring up at her through hate filled eyes. “Bitch! The gods are impotent, who are you really here to see?”
“Bad batch?” She replied and ducked under a taller man’s arm toward the restroom.
Sadie took out an old 35mm film canister. She felt its cool smoothness and popped the lid. Inside was a small mound of cut white powder. It looked soft as cotton. She went to the bath stall and didn’t bother sitting. She stripped off the glove and dipped a blood red fingernail into the canister. A hard pull, delicious warmth on her face. Her breathing sped up, a gorgeous lucidity seeped through her pores. She dipped the finger in again, sniff, delicious warmth. She replaced the lid on the canister and dropped it into her bag.
The glove had a tear in it. Sadie thought as she furiously scrubbed her hands at the sink. The glove had a tear in it. It was probably torn all day. The entire time I was out. I’ve picked up something. I’m sick. It was torn all day. She frantically scrubbed until her thumb was grazed and raw. Her own words echoed through her skull like a curse. It echoed and echoed. An admonishment of her carelessness. Somewhere in her mind, she knew she was in the grip of an episode but couldn’t change the channel. Sadie clasped her hands in front of her and gritted her teeth. The voice never stopped. Had it happened during the show? Before? How could she have not known? She tried to calm her breathing, going through every exercise her doctor had recommended but the dizziness made her feel out of body. She thought she might vomit.
Sadie dug into her pocket, clutched a bottle of paroxetine and pried open up the cap. She tasted chalk in the back of her throat, popped a handful chewing them like candy.     
The glove had a tear in it. The glove had a tear in it. Sadie ripped herself away from the sink. How long was I standing there? Twenty minutes? Half hour? The glove had a tear in it. She went rigid and slowly turned the water off. There. Sadie counted to five then exited the restroom but knew she’d need to wash again soon.
Just then the dressing room door opened. As Sadie turned, a panting and soaked through Jesus Christ emerged carrying his acoustic guitar. His bandmates followed close behind, some holding instruments. Are we getting another encore?  The decimal level backstage shot to deafening. The reddish hues backstage looked strange on the Messiah. With his hair covering his face, the darkened room made black, shadowed sockets where his eyes should be. Sadie shook her head.   
In a fraction of a second, Sadie saw Jesus fall back, a reddening polka dot on his chest began to grow. Sadie blinked, unable to process what she was seeing. Suddenly, a panicked shout rang out in front of her. Then another and another. The crowd in front swelled and ebbed and flowed. It suffocated her, swallowed her in hot breathing and shrieks. She felt herself pulled in all directions. A hard shove sent her to her knees.
Anguished onlookers covered their mouths in disbelief. Out of the corner of her eye, Sadie caught a glimpse of shadows, dark silhouettes on the walls and floor. On a raised platform, she stood motionless. Her hands trembling. Finally, somebody yanked her arm, tearing the glove from her left wrist all the way off. She gasped and began to scream soundlessly. An inaudible wail. She tumbled forward and felt a sharp blow on her head then right leg. Her body burned but her thoughts were on the exposed hand that was now dirty, contaminated. She could feel the parasites worming into her skin, boring through muscle and into her blood. She fell. Her face slapped against beer soaked concrete. Then she was up and kicked again as somebody tumbled over her. Sadie scrambled to her feet and made her way down the long winding corridors of the club. She stepped on her own shoelace and veered hard into a wall. Groaning, she turned left and nearly ran over a young man holding his head and moaning. She made another left and was calculating her chances of actually getting out of the club in one piece when she saw a crowd of people at the exit climbing on top of one another like ants.
She could see outside light just feet in front of her but was unable to move in the jam of bodies. So close. I’m almost out.
By the time she reached the exit, Sadie was shaking violently. Her phobias jolted into something inhuman, she gasped in short choppy wheezes. She began to lash out at everything around her. A roaring in her ears told her she was close to passing out. She could feel herself getting lightheaded and spots were appearing in front of her eyes. There was no sign of Patrick. Had he made it out? She looked down at her new t-shirt and noticed it was torn and soiled. She gagged again, vomited in front of her.
When she burst out of the club, the cool air kissed her cheek. Sadie tried to focus on getting away from the doors but it was too late. Darkness was coming. She stumbled into an intersection adjacent to the club entrance and felt herself begin to fall. Then there was nothing.

What the hell? Eli Fray thought. Standing slack-jawed at the entrance of the Basement, a herd of screaming people were flooding out of the Club at breakneck speed. All were disheveled and some had blood on their clothing. Most had a faraway, glazed look in their eyes.
Somewhere in the distance sirens were shrieking. Eli bent to help a young woman who had dropped to her knees, her sudden unexpected scream filling the parking lot. He had never seen so many bewildered people stumble around in a daze, their phones buzzing and voices calling out for loved ones. He  shuddered feeling wet and cold. 
When Sadie materialized through the doors she was bathed in milky light. Acutely unaware of her surroundings, she gazed around with a blank stare.  Wearing shorts and a blood-spattered t shirt, her ponytail was caked in dirt and cut hands were shaking wildly. “I’ve got blood in my hair.” She stammered. Then she fell at his feet. Eli scooped her up and pulled her to the curb. Laying her head on his lap, he opened his water bottle and sprinkled some on her forehead and face.
“Sadie! Sadie, wake up.” She stirred as police cruisers rounded the corner and officers spilled out with weapons drawn. “Sadie you have to get up, the police are here.”
Soon, tape had been set up around the Basement and statements were being taken. Witnesses wept and screamed. Some demanded to go home but it was obvious that nobody was leaving until NLAPD had interviewed everybody in the parking lot.
“What did you see son?” A graying officer asked as he knelt and glanced down at Sadie.
“I wasn’t there. I came to pick her up after.”
He lifted the lanyard. “She was backstage?”
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t really know.”
“I was backstage.” Sadie said weakly.
The officer nodded, giving it more emphasis than was needed. He held out a hand. “I’m officer Clement. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Sadie burst out laughing, while Eli looked at her worriedly. “Nows not good for me. Can you call back another time?”
“Ma'am it will only take a minute. We’re trying to piece together what happened in there.”
Sadie turned to watch as other concert goers huddled together discussing what had happened. They appeared to be comparing notes.
“Somebody had a knife.” She whispered.
“Yes. There are reports of a stabbing. Did you see any more?”
“No, just one.”
Sadie kept her eyes moving unable to focus on one single detail. She didn’t want any of this burned into her memory. As it was, there were flashes she wouldn’t be able to forget. Images of blood and glass, tears and silent screams. Sadie put her hands to her eyes.
“Can she come down to the station tomorrow?” Eli asked.
From somewhere far away, Sadie heard a faint Yes and drifted off into a restless sleep.

Sadie chapter excerpt.

Here's a bit w/ our Protagonist. Sadie's just trying to figure all this out...like all of us maybe.


Sadie kept walking. Past McArthur blvd up 21st street and left towards the city museum. Although not really a slum part of the city, trash still lined the gutters and storm drains, the acrid smell of it wafted in the air. A spring in her step, the cooler day was welcome on her already lightly sunburned shoulders and neck.
Sadie sank into her own thoughts, remembering a melody she danced to the previous year. It had been a simple piano melody with violins. She hummed the theme, recalling the steps. She wished she knew the title and resolved to find the music.
How tempting it was to walk right past the museum onto a freeway onramp, cross the Bay Bridge and stroll right out of New Los Angeles. The thought unnerved her some. She had never considered leaving the city. Was she truly this unhappy?
"Hey you got any spare change?" A man asked her as she passed. He was slumped against a building, youthful face, cutting eyes and petulant mouth glared at her from underneath the brim of a baseball cap.
"No." She replied and kept walking. She waited until a few steps past before she exhaled.
Up ahead, she spied a bundle of blankets rested underneath the canopy of a local restaurant. As she came up on it, the blanket moved. Sadie bent assuming somebody had left their puppy in the shade while they went and got food. As least leave a water dish. She thought perturbed.
Then the bundle began to cry. A tiny wail as from a newborn. Sadie leaned over the crocheted blanket, her hands deftly uncovering the top of a baby's head. She looked further and big brown eyes stared up at her. 
"Hi there." Sadie said.
She looked up and down the wide street then through the restaurant window, placing her face right to the glass. Unable to see through the glare, she again fixed on the baby.
"Who do you belong to?" She asked.
The little boy squawked, kicked his legs out and began to cry harder.
"Alright." Sadie cooed.
She sat down, her back against the building and picked up the bundle, cradling it in her lap. She bent and kissed the little boy on his forehead. Her long arms around the baby, her fingers gripped the blanket tightly, securing the child from rolling out of her grasp.
"I'll stay with you until your mom shows up." She said.
Sadie had never held a baby before. She wasn't sure if she was doing it right. She had heard that a baby's neck has to be held secure so angled the boy in the crook between her forearm and bicep, brushing his soft, silky hairs onto his forehead.
"What is your name?" She asked.
The boy cried harder, clearly becoming more annoyed with the situation. Sadie looked around for some clue as to the mother, squinting into the restaurant window.
"Shit."
The baby's pudgy arms waved around as he bawled harder. Sadie shuddered. A feeling of exasperation creeping into her.
"Are you hungry?"
She sighed as the baby responded by screaming. She looked again inside the restaurant. The traffic on the sidewalk having changed. More people were around, bustling past her from both directions, as if just going to or leaving work.
Sadie could not understand why any mother would just leave her hungry baby unattended on a busy goddamn sidewalk. It was galling.
Sadie looked down at the face of the child, his deep set somber eyes stared back at her. Then, without knowing why she was doing it, she reached around, pulling her tank top to the side. She deftly slid her engorged breast out of the cup of her bra. Sadie shifted the baby higher up to her chest and angled his mouth onto her nipple.
The sensation was strange, even stranger the fact that there was milk to be had. As she suckled the child, Sadie reflected on what was happening. Not only was she sitting on a dirty sidewalk in the middle of the day, her fresh clothes getting contaminated, but she was breast feeding a fucking baby.
I'm losing my mind. She thought.
The child's legs kicked happily as he stared up at her. A woman approached from beside the glass door. "Oh, how cute." She exclaimed. 'How old is he?"
"How should I know?" Sadie responded. "I assume this isn't your baby?"
The woman gasped. "Oh my."
"Oh yeah."
Sadie nodded towards the door and angled her face towards the window. "Can you find out who's kid this is? He's about to bite off my nipple."
Just then a cook appeared. His short cropped brown hair tucked under a hair net. The man was cleanly shaved and smelled of too much cologne. "You can't sit here at the door." He began. "Are you feeding that baby?"
"Perceptive one aren't we?" Sadie shot back.
"You can't feed your baby here."
"He's not."
"I can see your breast right now."
"I mean he's not my baby douchebag. Go find his mom."
The man's eyes widened and he stepped back into the establishment. Just then, a shrieking woman with graying hair pushed him aside. A single braid down her back, frantic eyes welled up with tears. To Sadie, she appeared to be Indian, a single dot adorned her forehead. Her feet stumbling out of one of her flip flops as she lunged forward, she wore an azure blue dress that matched the blanket of the boy.
"My baby!" She screamed.
Sadie looked up suddenly, a jolt as if awoken to a loud bang. "Here!" She screamed back.
The baby continued about his business making strange little utterances as he ate. As Sadie pulled away from him, he waved his arms frantically and began to scream. Sadie wondered what the scene must look like to the frightened bystanders standing nearby. All three of them screeching and a baby being handed off like it was a diseased little football.
She backed away and tucked her breast back into her bra. As the mother cried for police, Sadie put her hands on her hips and glowered down at her. "You should be ashamed of yourself. Anything could have happened to that kid. Fucking idiot."
She walked off at a leisurely pace ignoring the strange looks that seemed to be coming from all directions. Sadie turned town down 35th avenue and nearly ran into a working girl standing outside the city theater. The woman hardly seemed to notice. She wasn’t the only one though. All around her, people just seemed off. She had the distinct impression that something had changed following the murder of Jesus Christ. As if a little fire in their souls had been snuffed out. She could still smell the delicious corn dogs sold at the corner food truck. The Farmers Market set up on two adjacent parking lots was still selling ripe fruits and vegetables. But something seemed wrong.
She knew she needed to get back to normal. To carry on with her daily activities. I need to pay rent. She thought absently. But it was hard. She didn’t want to do anything but walk the streets, to share in the solace of the anonymous. Because that’s what it was. Nobody was talking about it but everybody just wanted to be together in sorrow. An unspoken sharing of grief for the Descended Christ.   
Turning the corner onto Main street, she saw the bright pink sign of the Sin Eater just up ahead. A Gentleman’s Club she worked at part time, The Eater was a mixture of scantily clad dancers and watered down alcohol.
Upon entering, the first thing one noticed was the darkened room. It usually took a full minute before Sadie’s eyes adjusted to the dimmed lighting. The smell was a mixture of stale cigarette smoke and sweat. Luckily, Reggie had invested in state of the art central air conditioning that kept the place at a tolerable temperature in the summer.
She had started working at the club immediately after leaving home. Taking dance classes, she had worked her way through school. But the fear of auditioning and the phobias she carried with her made it a struggle. She still danced but not at the Club. It wasn’t that she felt too righteous to dance at a Gentleman’s Club. The dancers at the Sin Eater were talented and many could audition for work outside but she didn’t like the looks she got from the men in the crowd. Being appreciated for your craft is one thing. Getting leered at by drunken middle aged men is something else entirely.
As she held up a middle finger and smiled at the doorman, she habitually counted the number of dancers strutting on the main and side stages. Only four. Slow night. Glancing up, a bikini clad blond woman dipped in glitter and glowing on the main stage winked and waved at her. Freya had been a friend to Sadie from the beginning. She had helped her get the part time job and show her the ropes. Freya was also descended. The only deity Sadie had met prior to Dionysus, the Nordic goddess was somebody she trusted. Her golden mane and come hither smiles always airy, always bright. 
Sadie grinned and pointed to Reggie’s office at the back of the club. Freya nodded and shook her perfectly rounded rear end in that direction. Sadie stepped to the door and turned the knob. Finding it locked, she knocked three times and waited. Nothing. Knocking again, this time more forcefully, she gave it a kick just for good measure. Abruptly, she heard a click and slowly entered the room. Reggie stood there scowling. A brunette dancer, probably new, was straightening her top and trying to evaporate from the room.
“Dammit Sadie.” Reggie said with a slight edge. “What is with you and your timing?” He blew his nose and coughed. A short, pot bellied man who resembled a weasel, the contours of his face were always lost to the jowls that seemed to be his whole face. Sadie smirked.
“Did I interrupt something?” As the girl scurried from the room like a frightened rabbit, Reggie buttoned up his silk purple shirt and ran a hand through his salt and pepper checkered hair. They looked at each other for a few seconds.
“What are you doing dummy?”
“Conducting a job interview.” Reggie answered and motioned for her to sit. “You’ve been gone awhile. Everything alright?”
Sadie lowered her eyes. “Yeah, things are OK.”
Reggie pulled out a small keyring and opened up a cabinet in the corner of the office. He pulled out a small file with her name on it and sat down. “So it’s been five weeks since we last saw you. How much work do you want?”
Sadie leaned forward showing him a bit of her bosom and arched an eyebrow. “I need a couple of weeks.”
Reggie shook his head. “It’s been really slow Sadie. I don’t need extra help to be honest.”
Sadie folded her hands on her lap and looked into his eyes. “I need money.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
Reggie nodded. “Will you dance?” She cringed. “I’m your waitress all weekend.”
Reggie looking bemused, closed his eyes. “You’re always such a pain.”
“That’s why you love me.” Sadie chirped. Just then the door burst open and in came Freya beaming and covered in sweat.
Sadie laughed. “You lost all your glitter.”
Freya winked and put her hands on her hips. “Some guy in the front row said he wanted to lick it off.”
Sadie placed her hands on either side of Freya’s face and brought her in close enough to kiss. “Ew.” She said grinning. Freya slapped Sadie on her behind
“Are you back then? This place really needs some lady girl action!”
Sadie glanced at Reggie and shrugged. “He says it’s too slow.”
Freya scoffed. “It’s fine. Reggie you’re a bullshitter. She stays.” Glaring, she slammed the office door as she left.

Apollo excerpt

Did I introduce you all to Apollo yet? Here's a bit of an early #NeonGods chapter. Dig on it, feel free to email or message on social media. The manuscript is close to beta read and a line edit is coming. Then a publish for all my Descendants headed towards the City.




It was once said that the Greek god Apollo, offspring of Zeus and Leto was born clutching a golden sword. He came into being on Delos along with his twin sister Artemis. According to legend, he was a precocious infant. At his first taste of sweet ambrosia, Apollo transformed from a tiny baby into a grown man.
His second birth wasn't like that. Not at all. Apollo descended behind the wheel of a 1985 Chrysler Lebaron. Speeding down a busy street at half past six on a Saturday afternoon, the god gripped both sides of the steering wheel like he was trying to strangle it.
One or two other drivers noticed the erratic driving and screams, each shaking their head in disappointment. Always a fast learner, the god quickly extrapolated the break from gas pedal and got a feel for the steering. He came to a red light and noticed vehicles around him stopping. Lightly pressing the break, he coasted to a stop and smiled at his traveling prowess.
But the god had yet become acquainted with the automatic gear shift and as he threw the door open and stepped out, the Lebaron lurched forward with no one at the wheel. Around him, other drivers shrieked and pointed in his direction. Some cursed and held up various fingers of their hand. Apollo joined in. He stood and screamed in his native tongue, waving his hands furiously and spitting. He was always a fast learner. Meanwhile, the ghost car traveled unattended up the block and through an intersection before finally careening into the side of a building. Apollo watched it curiously. Where was he? He knew it wasn't Delphi nor his birth place of Delos. This was an isle of man and he was in front of the veil. 
He entered a narrow alley thrown into shadow by adjacent buildings. He could smell food somewhere close and supposed that meat was being laid on the fire. Up ahead, a small structure, lay at the end of the alley. Dark covered windows on both sides of the door, the shanty was was lit by a single bulb suspended like a fake sun. A wooden sign hanged just underneath it. On the sign was a word drawing. He recognized it as Greek immediately. The word meant fortune and luck. Tyche!
The door creaked open and a woman shuffled outside in slippers. She was thin as reeds, long wavy gray hair settled down her back. "I've been waiting for one of you."
The voice was high pitch and cracked. Apollo took a step forward and noticed the woman wasn't looking at him but at something to his right. He turned and saw nothing. Taking another step, he realized the woman had no eyes. Or more succinctly, her lids rested on sightless corneas. She stood still but waved at him in short, jerky movements.
"Get over here goddamnit! I told you you've been expected!"
Apollo had no idea what the woman was talking about but it was clear she was welcoming.
"Where's Tyche?"
"Ah, a Greek!" The woman said. "Come closer. I want to see your face."
Apollo stepped in front of her and took her by the hands. He placed them on his face and waited. She ran her fingers down his cheeks and cupped his chin, then placed her thumbs onto his eyes and ran them up to his forehead. She felt the curls of his hair.
"Which one are ya?"
Apollo removed her gnarled fingers from his face. He stepped beside her and entered the small establishment. It was as downtrodden inside. Lit by candles at each corner, the room was perhaps the size of a small Roman bath. He smelled incense and cat urine as he walked to the center of the room where a single chair and television accompanied a tiny desk covered by newspaper clippings. He wondered vaguely about the papers considering her sight but let it pass. The woman intuiting his question, stepped beside him, ran trembling hands over the headlines as if they were in brail. He bent and read aloud.: "Multiple sources confirmed. The gods have landed."
"Which one are ya boy? Zeus? Orpheus?"
"Apollo."
The woman squealed in delight. "Have you been awake long?"
"Not long."
Apollo allowed himself to be sat in a chair and was given a cup of tea. It was hot and tasted of cinnamon. He let each sip linger on his tongue.
I've been waiting for somebody to show up at my door." She croaked.
"There are others?"
"Oh yes, there are many."
"Where?"
Apollo downed the last of the tea. He placed the cup in her shaking hand.
"More?" She inquired.
Apollo shook his head and as he did, the woman seized his wrist. "With kind eyes you'll see them deity." Her gray face cut into him like a razor. In the dim light it was like looking at a steely metal mold. Apollo recoiled and noticed his senses dulled. The tea.
"Better a sip than a smoke as they say."
Apollo was reminded of the Pythia. Known as the Oracle of Delphi, the Pythia  had got her name from the python that he himself had slain. She had been a powerful prophetess, her mystical operations a supposed mystery.
"Enthusiasmos." He said quietly.
"Ah, you do see!" She beamed at him. Her yellowing teeth and wolfish grin cracked her face into something macabre. "It was always you, dear Apollo. You gave me sight!"
"When did you awake?" He asked.
"Oh, I didn't Descend child. I was born human. But when the stars fell, I witnessed their fiery descent. Your descent.
"You haven't told me where they are."
"Because I don't know!" She spat. "They're around, many from both sides of the ocean."
The woman sat a candle down on the table and struck a match. It took her a couple tried but she got the wick lit, using her index finger and thumb as a guide. She looked up and Apollo swore she could see him.
"There's a storm coming. A big'un."
"What have you seen Pythia?"
The woman cackled and opened the door. Apollo felt the cool summer breeze on his bare arms. Although a warm night, it still brought goosebumps. Or perhaps it was what she said.
"The storm." He prodded.
"Beware it child, the clouds are rolling in angry. Best to find shelter while you can."
Always a riddle. Apollo thought perturbed.  She closed the door leaving Apollo on her doorstep. Then the bulb overhead went black. He looked up into the clear night sky and thought of rain.

Neon Gods Chapter 1

Hello everybody, as I run through the editing process and prepare NeonGods for my betas, I've had a few DM's concerning the scene that gets the action running in the novel. More than one of these messages has been cautionary, a few have told me it's hopelessly blasphemous. This story couldn't and honestly shouldn't begin in any other manner. Still, I want to get an idea of what you all think, So I'm posting an edited Chapter 1 of the novel. It needs another run through but the sentiment of the inciting incident is evident. Feel free to message me or find me on social networking sites if you want to discuss. As it is, enjoy! -P-

 Based on true events


Act I
The Moon

The edge of the cliff face jutted out like broken teeth. A long, steep climb, Detective Hank Dolan panted heavily and waved away mosquitoes. Hearing cars on the turnpike, he cursed the morning sun silently wishing he was still in bed. He had received a tip that a body was discovered matching the description of a woman gone missing three months prior. He despised these assignments. They rarely turned out well. Hank closed his eyes and tried to feel the breeze that served as small comfort to the summer heat that would soon be beating down onto them. “It’s supposed to be in this general area.” Gregg said.
A relic from Hank’s better days, Gregg Summers could always be counted on to be there when needed. Round and cheeky, Gregg was the perfect opposite to Hank’s gangly and finch like stature.
Hank stepped into some thorny underbrush and grabbed a tree for support. Contrary to popular belief, not all of New Los Angeles is sprawling buildings, rail lines, and taxi-cabs. Just outside the city is picturesque landscapes and vineyards. As organic as its people, the city is layered with modernism built on the detritus of the past. From above, its symmetry reminds one of an upside down chandelier. Countless lamps and mirrored windows bounce light in all directions. The city sparkles and shines, its luster polished in the night sky.
It’s not all ugly just most of it. Hank thought dryly.
He was positioning himself on a plateau overlooking the expanse when Gregg called out.
“Dammit! Over here!”
Hank rolled down his sleeves and put on some latex gloves as he maneuvered to where Gregg was staring at his feet and glowering.
Just then the smell hit him. Putrid and wan, Hank felt bile rise in his throat. He shuffled over and together they gazed down at the body. There were lacerations on her back from being cut repeatedly. Her knotted brown hair covered in dirt and wet leaves reminded Hank of Ophelia.
“Do you think it’s her?” Gregg asked.
Hank grimaced and held his breath. “Possibly.”
He knelt down and rolled her to her side Her ghostly, barren eyes had been olive. High cheekbones and pouty lips completed a wiry pretty picture. He gingerly lifted her left arm and sighed. There it was. The identifying tattoo that would make her his mark.
“It’s her.” He mumbled.
Gregg walked to the opposite side and leaned down. “Look at her neck.” He said. Dark purple bruising about an inch thick covered her throat. Splotches of blood and serrated skin indicated rope as the probable cause of death.
Gregg turned to stand then stopped, his eyes narrowing. “What’s in her hand?” Her broken, naked body had been turned in a way that Hank had initially missed the scourge.
“What the hell?” Gregg picked it up and scowled. “She did this to herself?” The rope had been braided into three prongs with wax balls at the ends. Each ball was covered in pieces of glass. Largely a Christian practice, Hank knew that flagellation was used as an extreme way for the devout to feel god’s love.
 Hank nodded. “The wounds on her back and legs, maybe.” Lifting her hand, Hank couldn’t help but notice her knuckles were bone white. “She’s still clutching it.” As he laid her hand back down, he noticed a piece of rope not attached to the scourge.
Hidden underneath her body and surrounded in brush, this rope was thicker and probably used to tow cars. “Wait a minute.” He cradled the back of the woman’s head and lifted it just enough to run his hand in the brush under her. They pulled four feet of frayed rope from under her body.
“Could be a cult. The city is nuts right now with all this talk of gods and goddesses.” Gregg remarked.
Hank had to admit that he brought up a good point. The flagellation alone spoke of Christian obsession. Perhaps she was a religious extremist who fell in with the wrong cult. Hank looked up to see Gregg staring at him. “What is it?”
Gregg cleared his throat. “You don’t think...maybe she was one of them?” Hank looked down at her face. They say the gods and goddesses are all beautiful. As if the fall from grace didn’t mar their physical countenance. And she was beautiful. Stunningly so. “It’s possible.”
Gregg circled back and bent down to examine the tattoo on her ribcage. “So she’s part of a cult and she’s doing this-” He points to her scourge marks. “-and her people, what, sacrifice her or something?”
Hank shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s more likely a suicide. Plus, if there had been some ritual, the brush around here would be all flattened.”
He held up the noose then glanced at the broken tree branch resting next to it. “I think she came here to die.” Hank thought back to what his partner had said about the possibility the girl was Descended.
Gregg searching his face nodded. “They’re human now right? They do die.”
Hank’s eyes lingered on her face. He noticed the sharp contours and wondered if she too should be included in the case file of the serial that had been terrorizing New Los Angeles for the past year.
That would make twenty four now. Twenty four bodies.
“I don’t know that they’ll ever be human. But they’re here nevertheless.”

The billboard, a sprawling mosaic of reds and blues was plastered on the Basement wall just above where Sadie Fuller stood. Lilac and lemon.
That’s what Sadie thought about as she waited for the Basement doors to open. This personal mantra had been hers for as long as she could remember. Both an affirmation and source of strength, she’d repeat the phrase whenever she needed it. It was a part of her, like her phobias, like her dancing. It made her think of sun tea, of purple light and flaxen yellow. Lilac and lemon. She looked up at it. A glossy picture of the headliner. Three accent lights cascaded a dull glow on the face of Jesus Christ and his band mates. The Messiah’s dark sunglasses and grizzled face leered out in the typical rock and roll pose. Around the corner and still thirty minutes before doors open, ushers herded ticket holders in line.
Sadie called herself a fan, which she knew was not wholly true because she had never really heard Jesus Christ Superstar’s music. But the man was a Descendant, a god that fell to earth, along with all the other gods, less than two years ago. Jesus had become a bona fide rock star. Such facts were hard to believe, if belief was even a thing anymore. For Sadie it was hard to tell. Much of the human experiences of myth and religion had become strange or irrelevant after the Descendance. This was a depressing admission but faith had never been something she’d had a strong connection to. And now there was no need for it at all.
Still, she was here waiting in line for the concert. There was clearly some attraction she held with the former god. She assumed it was curious fascination and accepted it as much.
Sadie made sure her gloves were covering all areas of bare skin on her hands. She checked for any holes or tears in the cotton, stretching each finger until she was sure there was no risk of contamination. She seldom had any problems when she went out in public but then again she didn’t attend many rock concerts either. Sadie fingered the backstage pass that hanged around her neck. It would likely be a total madhouse after the show. Who knew how many of these passes had been sold? Patrick wasn’t saying. Her date for the evening, the aspiring businessman had made all the arrangements and refused any elaboration on how much it had cost. Sadie glanced at him then back at her shoes. He wasn’t unattractive. Deep set brown eyes and tall. A tattoo on his left shoulder blade. She supposed they looked good together. The kind of couple you’d see on a sitcom or daytime television show. They had met a short time ago at her job. She had taken his drink orders, an ordinary task she did a hundred times a night only this night she had been lonely and got taken in by his attention. She had agreed to tonight’s date before even knowing his name. Her intuition told her that nothing would come of it. She certainly wouldn’t be going home with him. (He seemed desperate to be coddled and that shit got old fast.) But she was here and rumors were the Messiah put on a helluva good show.
Anticipation grew in Sadie as they moved past a merchant kiosk strategically set up on the way to the Basement front entrance. She put her hands on a t-shirt and key chain, getting a feel of them through her gloves.
“Which one do you like best?” Patrick asked. His voice was a cheery tenor.
“Oh, you don’t have to. I was just looking.” Sadie said.
“I want to.” Patrick replied quickly. “What size do you wear?”
He picked out a black shirt, paid the attendant, then handed it over. Sadie held up a smiling visage of a large black woman pointing to a cross in the sky and saying in bold lettering: ‘Y’all motherfuckers need Jesus!’ Sadie giggled and fit the shirt on over her tank top. She was relieved to be covered a bit. She tied a knot at the bottom showing some midriff but made sure to turn away whenever Patrick’s hands got too close to her bare skin. She looked ahead in line and noticed that ushers had opened the doors. Finally. She thought. She had been doing great working though her phobias but that didn’t mean she was without moments of panic. Patrick had also gotten quiet and she wondered if he was getting bored as well.
As they got inside the vibe changed completely. The drab waiting was replaced with a sulfuric quality combined with the heat of vibrating bodies. The Basement wasn’t a large venue. Designed for an intimate show, the lobby was adorned with band posters and stickers. High bricked walls and three large green lamps overhead spilled a misty fog of neon light in the room. It reminded Sadie of an arcade. The crowd would be jam packed, she knew, hoping that she didn’t get in there and start to freak out. Sadie admitted that she was starting to wish she had stayed home. Am I already contaminated? She fingered her back stage pass. Getting these would be worth the waves of nausea that she could feel churning in her stomach. Directly ahead, she could see people entering the nightclub, inside the clangs of instruments being tuned drifted out into the lobby. Sadie moved that way and peered in, eyes squinting as she passed into the darkened room.
Sadie stepped away from the low gate separating her from the band and turned directly into a kiss from Patrick. His hand on her behind, he smiled down at her. Just feet from a cabinet of speakers, her ears rang. She fixed her attention back to the stage, marveling on the Descendant. He was sinewy, tan and wore only a ragged pair of shorts. His long hair covering his face as he played, he seemed in trance or perhaps praying. Sadie probed ahead and could feel stage lighting warm the base of her skull. The band had kicked into a slow, melodic tune. Rising scales built in intensity until reaching a tone of exaltation then were improvised in peculiar phrases. Sadie saw the adoring reverence in Patrick’s eyes. The crowd’s reaction was similar. It was like being at a religious revival. Hundreds of arms reached out to the stage, trying to pull the Savior towards them. Audience members stamped their feet and shook their heads. It was the Lord’s prayer. It was a sermon on stage. The front rows felt like being underwater. Sadie’s ears popped and she swallowed to relieve the pressure. She straightened and put her hands out to the stage. Christ lifted his head for a moment, bringing his eyes level to Sadie’s. A crooked smile came to his face. Sadie blushed. She thought of the many people that traveled with the band, attending every show they performed. She could understand the attraction. No other concert was quite like this. And she knew it wasn’t just the music. They wanted much more than music.   Hope fell like falling snow and made everybody who bore witness something more. The power of Jesus Christ was unknowable even as it came into your soul like milk and honey. We want you to save us but we don’t want you do die for us. Not again.
This is what the concert was designed for. It was a religious ritual meant to increase our comprehension of faith itself. And Sadie did feel redeemed. A new peace flowed through her. She closed her eyes, her body vibrated with a deep bass that rumbled through the venue. She took a deep breath and it was as if the noise of the crowd had disappeared. She was alone with the music and it was glorious. 
The halls backstage are dusty. Sadie Fuller thought as she meandered through the corridors of the Basement. Under blinking fluorescents and throngs of drunken groupies and roadies, the otherwordly quality of the music had penetrated into the chipped plaster and peeled wallpaper of the venue interior. 
Her long raven hair matted down in places, Sadie could feel sweat beaded on her forehead and neck. Her evergreen eyes darted up and around not settling on one particular thing for too long. At her side, Patrick walked a little too close, his arm brushing up against her as they wove their way backstage.
Spread out before her was every facet of the rock and roll experience. Half-naked women mingled here and there while booze addled fans and friends waited for the messiah to emerge from his dressing room. 
The area was a large open space littered with a bar and fold out chairs. To Sadie, the word ‘red room’ came to mind because blood red accent lights hanged haphazardly to the walls. She smelled stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer and resisted the onset of a headache. She tucked her hands under her armpits and cringed as people were shoved into her. There are too many in here. Fans swarmed the dressing room door. Their patience growing thin as it got hotter backstage.
Approaching a lanky, clearly inebriated Sid Vicious lookalike, Sadie turned away as he grabbed her bare arm just under the t-shirt sleeve and pulled her towards him.
“You wanna candy flip babe? I got some pure liquid if you party.”
“Get off me.”
She pulled out of his grasp and looked down to see dirt marks on her arm and  her cotton glove torn at the left thumb exposing a tiny bit of creamy skin. She gagged and felt her forehead get hot.
“Is there a bathroom around here?”
“We can go there if you want.” The man replied. Sadie turned to go and bumped into somebody that had basically been on top of her. “Fuck!” She turned back and he was within kissing distance. Sadie recoiled, pushing his head away. Then she noticed that what she took as dirt on the man’s forehead was actually a round tattoo. She pulled her hand away as he grabbed the sides of his face. The man doubled over and cursed, staring up at her through hate filled eyes. “Bitch! The gods are impotent, who are you really here to see?”
“Bad batch?” She replied and ducked under a taller man’s arm toward the restroom.
She took out an old 35mm film canister. She felt its cool smoothness and popped the lid. Inside was a small mound of cut white powder. It looked soft as snow. She went to the bath stall and didn’t bother sitting. She stripped off the glove and dipped a blood red fingernail into the canister. A hard pull, delicious warmth on her face. Her breathing sped up, a gorgeous lucidity seeped through her pores. She dipped the finger in again, sniff, delicious warmth. She replaced the lid on the canister and dropped it into her bag.
The glove had a tear in it. Sadie thought as she furiously scrubbed her hands at the sink. The glove had a tear in it. It was probably torn all day. The entire time I was out. I’ve picked up something. I’m sick. It was torn all day. She frantically scrubbed until her thumb was grazed and raw. Her own words echoed through her skull like a curse. It echoed and echoed. An admonishment of her carelessness. Somewhere in her mind, she knew she was in the grip of an episode but couldn’t change the channel. Sadie clasped her hands in front of her and gritted her teeth. The voice never stopped. Had it happened during the show? Before? How could she have not known? She tried to calm her breathing, going through every exercise her doctor had recommended but the dizziness made her feel out of body. She thought she might vomit.
Sadie dug into her pocket, clutched a bottle of paroxetine and pried open up the cap. She tasted chalk in the back of her throat, popped a handful chewing them like candy.     
The glove had a tear in it. The glove had a tear in it. Sadie ripped herself away from the sink. How long was I standing there? Twenty minutes? Half hour? The glove had a tear in it. She went rigid and slowly turned the water off. There. Sadie counted to five then exited the restroom but knew she’d need to wash again soon.
Just then the dressing room door opened. As Sadie turned, a panting and soaked through Jesus Christ emerged carrying his acoustic guitar and followed by the band in tow. The decimal level backstage shot to deafening. The reddish hues backstage looked strange on the Messiah. With his hair covering his face, the darkened room made shadowed sockets where his eyes should be. Sadie shook her head.  In a fraction of a second, Sadie saw Jesus fall back, a reddening polka dot on his chest began to grow. Sadie blinked, unable to process what she was seeing. Suddenly, a panicked shout rang out in front of her. Then another and another. The crowd in front swelled and ebbed and flowed. It suffocated her, swallowed her in hot breathing and shrieks. She felt herself pulled in all directions. A hard shove sent her to her knees.
Anguished onlookers covered their mouths in disbelief. Out of the corner of her eye, Sadie caught a glimpse of shadows, dark silhouettes on the walls and floor. On a raised platform, she stood motionless. Her hands trembling. Finally, somebody yanked her arm, tearing the glove from her left wrist all the way off. She gasped and began to scream soundlessly. An inaudible wail. She tumbled forward and felt a sharp blow on her head then right leg. Her body burned but her thoughts were on the exposed hand that was now dirty, contaminated. She could feel the parasites worming into her skin, boring through muscle and into her blood. She fell. Her face slapped against beer soaked concrete. Then she was up and kicked again as somebody tumbled over her. Sadie scrambled to her feet and made her way down the long winding corridors of the club. She stepped on her own shoelace and veered hard into a wall. Groaning, she turned left and nearly ran over a young man holding his head and moaning. She made another left and was calculating her chances of actually getting out of the club in one piece when she saw a crowd of people at the exit climbing on top of one another like ants.
She could see outside light just feet in front of her but was unable to move in the jam of bodies. So close. I’m almost out.
By the time she reached the exit, Sadie was shaking violently. Her phobias jolted into something inhuman, she gasped in short choppy wheezes. She began to lash out at everything around her. A roaring in her ears told her she was close to passing out. She could feel herself getting lightheaded and spots were appearing in front of her eyes. There was no sign of Patrick. Had he made it out? She looked down at her new t-shirt and noticed it was torn and soiled. She gagged again, vomited in front of her.
When she burst out of the club, the cool air kissed her cheek. Sadie tried to focus on getting away from the doors but it was too late. Darkness was coming. She stumbled into an intersection adjacent to the club entrance and felt herself begin to fall. Then there was nothing.